


Déjà Vu (The Undomestic Gods)

by decotex



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:53:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decotex/pseuds/decotex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chilton is mildly traumatized after being framed and then shot in the face. Will wasn't using his guestroom anyway.</p><p>Déjà Vu OR The Undomestic Gods OR Homeward Bound</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дежа вю (Неприрученные боги)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119908) by [Lykaon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykaon/pseuds/Lykaon)



“Déjà vu,” was the first thing Will said, the second time Chilton arrived on his porch. 

“Likewise,” replied Chilton, trying to keep composure amidst a swarm of puppies. “Although I have to start off by asking if Jack Crawford will be joining us.”

“You were acquitted, Dr. Chilton. The FBI isn’t interested in you anymore.”

“Good. Bullets are bad for my complexion.” He gestured to the right side of his head, which was wrapped in bandages. 

They stood there for a moment, as Chilton pretended to be distracted by the dogs.

“Is this the part where I invite you inside?” asked Will, finally.

“Can it be?”

Will stepped back and held the door open. 

“Won’t you come in. You’ll catch your death in the cold.” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

\---  
In a moment of inspiration, Will served Chilton his coffee in an FBI mug. The effort was wasted, however, as Chilton sipped it distractedly, staring blankly at the wall.

“So. More free centerpieces?”

“Excuse me?”

“Corpses.”

“No. Thank god. They posted guards in the hospital, not that that would have stopped him . . .” He rubbed his bandages. “Anyway, I think he’s lost interest. Got what he came for, as it were.”

Will stared. Chilton looked . . . fine, all things considered, if a bit twitchy. He had forgone his usual suit for jeans and a thick hunting jacket, which lead Will to believe that he had either been recently discharged from the hospital or had gotten lazy.

“And what have you come here for, Dr. Chilton? Revenge? Nostalgia? Free coffee?”

“My house, you see. There were lots of dead people in it.”

“Do you have a problem with dead people?”

“Only when they’re in my basement, and all over my kitchen, and all over my shirt.”

“Still hung up on that?.”

Chilton rolled his eyes.

“Easy for you to say. He likes you.”

“Well, what do you want me to do? Have him arrested? You’re welcome to use my phone to call the FBI and say, ‘Hannibal did it,’ but you and I both know how that goes.”

“Well . . . the thing is,” Chilton said, avoiding Will’s eyes. “I’d really rather not go back to my house for a while. And the bank froze my assets. And before you say anything, let me just say this; you owe me, Will Graham. You owe me.”

He fell silent, glaring at the wall and doing uncomfortable things with his hands. Will let him stew for a bit. 

Eventually Will stood up, taking his own mug and Chilton’s and exiting the room. 

“Guest room’s upstairs,” he called from the kitchen. “It’s probably pretty dusty, just warning you. And I think the some of the dogs may have taken to sleeping on the bed.”

The house was silent for a moment. Will waited. And then, with obvious relief;

“Thank you, Mr. Graham.”


	2. Chapter 2

It took Chilton three trips to carry his collection of leather luggage (four suitcases and one plastic-wrapped suit, because he was traveling light these days but he wasn't an _animal_ ) from his car, up the stairs, and into Will Graham's spare room, which was as dusty as promised. He could have done it in two trips, but he wasn't mobile as he used to be.

The room was . . . rustic, Chilton decided. Authentic. Like the "Woodland Charm" suite at his favorite country club, except smaller and with fewer mini bars.

He shook out the comforter, hit the bed with the pillow a few times, and realized he had reached the end of his domestic knowledge. He considered asking Will for a - vacuum cleaner? Or a lint roller maybe? Then he decided he didn't care, dog hair be damned, and pulled himself onto the bed with his laptop.

He wondered if Will had wifi. Maybe he was one of _those_ people, who talked about being unplugged and ate kale.

It could be worse, he admitted, reaching up to touch the space where his cheek had been.

 ---

 Will didn't mind Chilton staying in his guest room. He just wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with him.

And it wasn’t even his neuroses, in this case. What is the proper etiquette when the guy who testified against you in court and then spies on you in prison and is, in general, kind of a big asshole, gets shot in the face and then proposes an indefinite sleepover? Probably somewhere between "cook him a romantic dinner" and "steal his cane".

A year ago Will would have fretted about the inevitability of social interaction in his own home.

As it were, he shrugged it off and checked his phone, knowing before he looked that there would be a message from Jack Crawford.

 _“Someone died. Please help us, Will. We need you, Will.”_ Same as always.

Not much had changed, in a year, considering. 

Except himself. He had changed. 


	3. Chapter 3

“What are you doing?”

Chilton looked over his shoulder, pan in one hand and knife in the other. He stood in front of Will’s underused stove, wearing normal people clothes and looking for all the world like someone’s dad. The lack of suit was beginning to bother Will more than it should. It was like seeing Jack Crawford in the intimates section of Nordstrom.

“Cooking breakfast. Isn’t that what normal people do for each other?”

“Neither of us are ‘normal people’, Fredrick.”

“But both of us eat breakfast.”

Will shrugged and walked to the cabinet, pulling out several bags of dog food.

“Sorry," he conceded. "It’s just the last person to cook me breakfast-”

“Ah. Say no more.”

They worked in silence.

“ . . . Although, and I don’t mean to pry, but . . . why was Dr. Lecter cooking you breakfast?”

“Well. He just liked to show up and cook sometimes.”

“Okay.”

Will brought the bowls over to the living room and then sat at the table, drumming his fingers on his leg.

“Really, though.”

“Yes, I believe you.”

Will laughed suddenly and ran his hand through his hair.

“I swear!”

Chilton was facing away from Will, but he could hear the smile.

“Mr. Graham, your private life is really none of my business.”

“Says the guy who just cooked me breakfast.”

"You've got me there."

Will found himself staring. People in the field of the criminally insane with questionable (at best) morals, cooking breakfast for him. It was becoming a pattern. He pictured Freddie Lounds showing up at his front door one day with donuts.

"So you can cook?”

“It’s one of the necessities of being a bachelor-I’m sure you understand.”

Chilton looked through Will’s cabinets, bringing out two plates. .

“Just don’t expect-whatever Lecter cooks. Braised salmon and capers à la human flesh, or whatever.”

“Believe me, Fredrick, I am not.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was on the second day, when Chilton swallowed his pride and told Will he supposes he should apologize, and Will gave him a look and asked, genuinely, "For what?" that Chilton realized Will wasn't afraid of him anymore. 

The Will Graham he had known and spied on was broken, unstable, and terrified of human interaction. This new Will channeled his special abilities into confidence. He feared nothing. Chilton, ever the opportunist, sensed the potential for a well-received paper. Six months ago, he would have written it.

It was on the third day, when Will came back from a session with Hannibal Lecter looking thoroughly enlightened, that Chilton realized he was afraid of Will Graham.

\---

Will Graham was thinking about death. 

Will spent a lot of time thinking about death-probably more than was appropriate even for a murder investigator. 

He wondered, sometimes, if people could tell-that when they caught his eye, he was reminded of corpses. He decided he didn't care.

"Hi."

Will blinked.

Chilton was sitting on his couch with his laptop, staring. Honestly, Will had forgotten about him. 

He thought, offhandedly, about how completely out of his depth Chilton was, about how he had been looking to skim some exotic fish from a barrier reef and had accidentally thrown himself into the Mariana Trench. He wondered if Chilton was aware of the timer above his head, counting down his remaining air.

Will said nothing and turned away.


	5. Chapter 5

Chilton had eaten everything.

He had stretched the very limited vegan contents of Will’s kitchen as far as he possibly could, but, as he shook the empty Cheerios box that had been yesterday’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Chilton accepted his fate.

He had to go to the grocery store.

Will was out. Will was usually out, engaged in what Chilton assumed to be some sick mixture of looking at corpses, fishing, schmoozing a cannibal, and otherwise avoiding him.

After a half-hearted search for a spare key, Chilton left the door unlocked. It wasn’t as if anyone besides himself or Will, much less a burglar, had been or would be in the vicinity. Between the drive, the dogs, and the fact that most expensive thing Will owned was probably premium tackle box, anyone who tried to rob Will would earn a negative profit.

Chilton realized, as he approached his Lexus, that he didn’t know where he was going. He decided that he probably should call and ask Will, at the same moment as he decided not to.

\---

People were staring.

He almost bought one of the sustainability-themed baseball caps on the spinning display case by the registers (I Recycle!), but he figured it wouldn’t help much. Then he would just be the guy with gauze wrapped around half his head and a cane and a dumb hat.

“Mom, that guy has tape on his face!”

“Don’t point, Brandon. It’s rude.”

Chilton ducked his head and tried to focus on the bottles on the rack in front of him. _Yeah, Brandon. Fuck you, Brandon. When you get shot in the face I’m going to point and laugh, see how you like it. Bitch._

Chilton chose three-medium priced wines at random, mourning the loss of his drinks cabinet at home. He hadn’t really been a wine aficionado, but it was the principle of the thing. One moment you’re sitting on your Italian leather couch drinking German brandy from a crystal glass, and the next you’re buying store-brand high fiber cereal in bulk, Chilton reflected, as he compared the knockoff Froot Loops to the slightly cheaper knockoff Corn Pops.

Well, gone are the days, he thought sourly.

\---

Will’s car was in the driveway when Chilton pulled up. He was home early. Maybe he had cut down on his angsty brooding, which Chilton was sure must account for at least two hours of his day.

The door opened as Chilton was unloading bags from his car.

“Where were you?”

“At the club, doing an 8-hole course with the boys, only I left my clubs-where do you think I was?” Chilton said as he locked his car, wondering if he had detected a note of true concern. Although, with Hannibal around, concern wasn't entirely unwarranted.

Will stood on the porch, staring.

“What?”

“Need help?”

“Be my guest.”

\---

They sat at the kitchen table, groceries put away and bags disposed of, stewing in an awkward silence.

“The bag boy aggressively insisted on carrying my groceries for me,” Chilton said, finally. “I think he thought I was dying or something. He looked like he was about to call an ambulance.”

“You don’t exactly look . . . like you’re not dying.”

“I don’t accept appearance criticism from the guy who’s only recently stopped mixing plaids.”

Will shrugged.

He had come a long way from mixing plaids. Chilton was pretty sure he had spotted a Burberry scarf on the coat rack by the door. The designer knit sweater he was wearing now looked very, very expensive. Chilton wondered if he went fishing with it.

“Is that Belstaff?”

“Lanvin.”

Chilton nodded his approval.

“Hannibal looks good on you.”

“I wish I could say likewise.”

They lapsed into another silence.

“When can you take it off?”

“Mr. Graham.”

“The bandage. On your face.”

“Ah. Well.” He paused. “I did get shot in the face. I guarantee this,” he gestured to his face, “Is less offensive than what’s under it.”

Will shrugged.

“Visible wounds? Must be Tuesday.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about _your_ delicate constitution. Not all of us lead such a gruesome life.”

“That’s true. Some people go eight, nine days without seeing a corpse. I wonder what that’s like.”

“It’s nice. Gives you time to wash the blood out of your socks.”

Will laughed, and Chilton thought, quietly and to himself, that it was a shame they had met under such violent circumstances.

They might have been friends.


	6. Chapter 6

“Good afternoon.”

Chilton started, and again when Will slammed the door with what had to have been malicious intent (as Will had almost definitely used his magical empath abilities to deduce that Chilton was hosting a headache/hangover fusion rave behind his eyeballs.)

“You’re home early,” said Chilton, sounding accusatory even to himself. It was unusual for Will to be in his living room at this time of day, which was why Chilton had been. Will didn’t tell him much, but it wasn’t hard to recognize the correlation between irregularities in Will’s schedule and the strange looks and fancy leftovers, both signifiers of a certain friendly neighborhood cannibal.

“Yeah. Strange how I’m allowed to be here whenever I want because I live here.”

Chilton shrugged.

He had decided long ago to leave Will to his own illicit hobbies, disgusting that they may be, because if and when Will snapped he would probably kill Chilton quickly in his sleep. In a way Chilton found his past comforting, because it was so horrific that it couldn’t possibly happen to him twice. Statistically, the chances of Will doing something to Chilton worse than the things that had already been done to him was low, because the bar couldn't really get much lower.

And then, ever the trailblazer, Will did do something worse. He casually walked over to the other side of the couch and sat down.

After about fifteen seconds, Chilton stopped bracing himself for disembowelment. This did little to resolve the tension. Will was leaning against the plush, one leg tucked under his thigh, blinking placidly. It wasn’t even a murderous or particularly bitter stare. Will appeared, for all the world, to be . . . chilling.

This made Chilton very uncomfortable. He dug wildly for an insult, desperate for familiar territory.

“Was today the day that Jack finally ran out of excuses to keep a mentally unstable man in the field?”

“Actually,” said Will, “I went to an open house today.”

“Ah.” The penny drops.

 Nothing for it. Chilton picked his tablet up from the side table and began scrolling casually.

“Did they keep my granite counter tops in the kitchen?”

“No. Replaced with laminate.”

“Lazy. I bet they could have scraped the blood stains off if they really tried.”

“And get this-when I asked the realtor about previous tenants, she said that the house had been seized by the state. And then-”

“Oh, there’s more?”

“Right? And then, because I found myself in the area,I stopped by your hospital on my way home, and they said that you no longer work there.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Weird.”

“So weird.”

Chilton wondered idly whether he could afford a motel room, and decided that it depended both on the class of the motel and length of time Hannibal decided to let him live.

“When they thought I was the Chesapeake Ripper, there was a very thorough investigation.” He gave Will a pointed look.

“Ah. And I’m guessing the things that came out about your hospital-”

“-May not have portrayed me in the best light,” Chilton agreed.

“So, what was the verdict? Fired, obviously, for a start.”

“Big fines. Astronomical fines. I cannot begin to describe the enormity of the fines I had to pay. Seized assets, like I said. They took my house, which is fine. They can bulldoze it for all I care. Still, the situation is . . . not ideal.”

"So you hoped that if you claimed trauma as the reason not to go back to your house or your job, that due to my 'guilt'-" Will did the vocal equivalent of air quotes on the word 'guilt', which Chilton found worrying, "- I would allow you to stay here as long as you wanted? Or was freeloading more of an in-the-moment decision?"

Chilton was pretty sure he had seen a Motel 6 in town when he went to get groceries. He wondered if Will would give him time to get his luggage, or if he would be immediately ejected from the premises. Maybe he would just kill him, right now.

At least that would save him the motel bill.

“Is this the part where you kick me out?”

Will shrugged.

“You were right. I owe you.”

Chilton wasn't sure where to go from there. He couldn't quite bring himself to say the words in his head, (his ego had taken a beating but it was still _there_ ) so he just nodded.

Will appeared to have already checked out of the conversation. He tended to do that, Chilton had noticed. He was currently facing straight ahead, clearly staring at something beyond the opposite wall.

"And they also, ah, revoked my medical license."

That brought Will back. He frowned.

“ . . . Mr. Chilton?”

“Please don’t.”

“It sounds so wrong.”

“I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm the slowest person in the world. Do people still care about Chilton and Will? I do, anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s been a month since Chilton had checked himself out of John Hopkins, paid an illegal visit to his old house to collect some belongings, and set off for Wolftrap, Virginia, wondering if the bullet had affected his logic and reasoning skills. It was a month since Chilton moved into Will Graham’s guest room, and he was worried.

It was the way he left his tablet charger permanently plugged in to the outlet next to his bed, but used Will’s when he was downstairs. It was the way Will had taken to buying vegan butter, while Chilton had taken to buying dog treats. It was the green duvet, which he sometimes dragged down the stairs so he could sit with it on the couch next to the window that overlooked the front yard and read.

It was the fact that he had just accidentally referred to Will’s house as “home” for the second time.

“I mean, my friend’s house that I’m staying at.”

“That’s another thing, Fred. It’s awfully nice of this friend to let you stay at his house, but don’t you think it’s about time you try an’-I don’t know, get back on your feet? Get a job, you know.”

“Yes, thanks mom.” Chilton sighed and pulled the duvet up to his chin. The movement uncovered his feet at the other end of the couch, and he resolved to make Will buy longer sheets.

“The Crab Palace downtown is hiring a new waiter. Don’t be proud, Fred, you’d make a good waiter. There’s no shame in earning a living.”

“Right, mom. I appreciate your suggestion, but I’ll pass.”

“I can give them your number. I’m friends with the owner’s wife, Linda. Want me to have them call you? I can call her right now, or I can talk to her after church tomorrow.”

“Mother, please do not.”

“I’m telling you, Fred, their seared tuna is a national treasure.”

“I have to go. It was nice talking to you.”

“All right, take care Fred. Tell your friend I said hello.”

“I will. Bye.” Chilton hung up, lest she continue to push her sick agenda. He could picture himself in few situations less appealing than working as a waiter at The Crab Palace, and most of those out of personal experience.

He and Will were warming up to each other, relatively, in that they had done away with outright hatred. Baby steps. He was sure Will hadn't forgotten his residency as the trophy mental patient, and he knew he personally had not moved past the fact that Will fraternized with the enemy.

Chilton moved to rub his cheek. The bandage had almost escaped notice at this point. He tended to forget about it, as long as he wasn't in public, which, lately, was most of the time.

"You ever going to take that off?"

Chilton closed his book and set it down carefully beside him. He smoothed the duvet draped over his legs. It was mostly futile, as there's only so much dignity to retain when you're lying in a compromising position on someone else's couch.

"Eventually. Does it bother you that much?"

"It doesn't _bother_ me," said Will, in the tone of a man who is so far past being bothered by anything less than an extremely creative corpse display (and even then) that it's kind of funny, in a horrible way. "It just seems unnecessary. Whose benefit are you wearing that for? Not mine, I hope."

"Not yours," he confirmed.

Will set his bags on the table, unloading thin stacks of papers. He had taken up teaching again, to a lesser extent than before. Chilton suspected he liked keeping busy, and that he probably liked teaching too, more than he showed.

"Are you hiding?" he asked, finally.

" _No_." Chilton sniffed. "I'm . . . preventing infection."

"Infections enter the body through open wounds. Are you shooting yourself in the face every night?"

"Will-" "Hey, it's your face. Look like a lobotomy patient for as long as you want."

"How's your class?" said Chilton, pointedly.

"Fine. They're more scared of me than before, which is fantastic."

"Congratulations."

Will sat at the table and opened his laptop, presumably to do school work, although he could just be trying to end the conversation. Chilton considered leaving, but ultimately decided against it. Will had been the one to join him. Let him deal with the consequences of social interaction. He turned, propping his head up with his arm so he could face Will.

"My mother thinks I should get a job."

"Mothers want what's best for their children."

"Can you become a therapist by hanging around them too often?"

“Why? Going to start a practice?"

“No.”

“Not a bad idea, though. Capitalize on your infamy enough and they might even overlook your bedside manner.”

“My bedside manner? Do you really want to go there, notoriously unstable Will Graham?”

“At least I know better than to run a hospital, _Mr. Chilton_.”

Chilton rolled his eyes with his whole face. Will was smiling. How dare he.

“How dare you.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t get over it. Even I’m technically Professor Graham, although no one ever seems to remember.”

“Will-”

“As an employee of the state, I don’t think I can legally continue to recognize a state-appointed title that has been revoked-”

“Then just call me Fredrick. Jesus, Will.”

Will nodded without looking up from his computer. 

Chilton wasn't sure, but he suspected that he had just gotten to first base in the game of friendship with Will Graham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so slow. I'm sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

Chilton was woken up that morning by frantic scratching at his door. The latest stray, a cream-colored lundehund, had taken to bothering him when he wanted to go out, and although Chilton complained loudly about the inconvenience, he had secretly named it Count Crumblenubs.

Wolf Trap was especially pretty that morning. Chilton stood on the porch, barefoot, squinting in the early light. It couldn't have been after seven, but the cool night was already thawing into a fresh spring morning. Count Crumblenubs chased a butterfly through the wet grass, barking excitedly and upsetting little rainbow showers of dew. The lake sparkled in the distance. He had to admit, living in the middle of nowhere had its charms.

Will was in the kitchen when Chilton went inside. Uncharacteristically, as of late, he was wearing a pocketed brown vest and a baseball cap.

"Ah, the good ol' rustic Will Graham. Haven't seen him in a while. It's a bit early for that, don't you think?"

Will lifted a six-pack into the cooler on the table. "Going for my first fishing trip of the season. It's always best, this early in the morning."

"I meant, it’s a bit early to get black-out drunk. Unless all that beer is for the fish.”

“Oh. You’re probably right.” Will zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, allowing him to hold the cooler with both hands. "Want to come?"

"Fishing? On the boat?"

"Yeah. On the boat."

Normally, Chilton didn't consider himself and nature activities to be on speaking terms. He was in an especially good mood that morning, though, and the lake had looked idyllic. Besides, he figured it was an integral part of the Will Graham experience.

"Sure. I don't need shoes, do I?"

\---

None of the dogs came with them onto Will’s wooden fishing dinghy. Chilton wondered whether that was a normal thing, or if he had offset the weight of the dogs. Will shrugged when he asked.

"I usually don't take them with me. There's something peaceful about being alone on the lake."

It went without saying that he was not alone, this time, but Chilton felt if there was anything intrusive about his presence, he wouldn't have been invited. Will had also implied that Chilton was better company than his dogs, which, with Will, was possibly equivalent to a knighthood. 

And Will was right; it was very nice, out in early morning nature. Not that he intended to make a habit of it, or that he would call himself a fisherman (he had held the rod for all of two minutes) or would even say that he liked fishing and stop looking down on those who did, but this one time-he would admit, it could be worse.

"You've really never been fishing?" Will, who was clearly in his element, asked.

"I can't eat fish."

"That's a recent development."

"I also-no offense-am not generally a fan of camping and fishing and such. The woodland activities."

"I never would have noticed."

Chilton stretched-and maybe it was because of his bad knee, or because he was halfway through a beer, or maybe nature put him that much out of his element-and overbalanced, rocking the boat dangerously. Which was embarrassing enough already, and then he heard a splash from Will’s end of the boat.

Will was leaning over the side, looking down at the water.

“What was that?” Chilton asked.

“My premium tackle box.”

They stared at the spot. Chilton thought he could see it, for a second, sinking to the bottom of the lake, but then there was just cloudy movement and the reflection of the sun.

And Chilton decided, more definitively than he had felt about anything in the past few months, that he was going to get that tackle box if it killed him.

He shrugged off his coat (borrowed, from Will), folded it neatly over his arm, and laid it on the seat. Then he started on his belt buckle.

“Ah,” Will said, as much in confusion as in protest.

“Don’t.”

“You really don’t have to do that.”

Chilton stood up to step out of his tan pants (Armani), laying them on the seat as well. They would get dirty, but he figured it was about time he stop pretending he cared. He slipped off his watch, hesitating before handing it to Will. “This is worth more than your house,” he said, as threateningly as he could manage, standing on a boat in his underwear.

With that exaggeration, he jumped-

-and came back up for air about five seconds later, cursing loudly

“It’s cold!” he yelled.

Will turned and pointed to the snow-capped mountains off in the distance. “It snows up there in the winter, and then in spring the water flows down the mountain and fills the lake.”

“Brilliant.” He took a deep breath and dove downwards.

Will leaned over the side, watching. A few moments later, Chilton broke through the water and grabbed the side of the boat, gasping.

“How deep is this lake?” he asked, once he had caught his breath.

“This early in spring? Probably about . . . ten feet.”

“Ten feet? That’s it?”

“Give or take a few.”

“It felt a lot deeper than ten feet. At least fifteen. Maybe twenty.”

“It’s definitely around ten.”

“Well, it feels deeper.”

“You don’t have to-”

Chilton cut him off by diving down, back into the water. Will looked out across the early morning lake, alone again. It struck him, suddenly, how seldom he felt alone these days, and how little he minded it.

When Chilton came up for air a third time, Will motioned for him to get back in the boat, which Chilton declined.

“You’re not going to find it.”

And he didn’t, the fourth or fifth time. But the sixth, he clung to the side of the boat and held out his hand.

“End of the line.”

“The . . .?” Will picked up his fishing rod.

“Yeah. The hook end. Of the-yeah. Can I have it?”

Will pulled out the line a few meters and handed the end to Chilton, who dove back in the water. A few seconds later, he felt a sharp tug. He reeled the line in, gently as not to break it. Even so, it felt lighter than it should have, and when it breached the surface Will saw why. Chilton was nudging it along on his shoulder as he swam. He grabbed the edge of the boat and roughly hoisted the soggy tackle box up, dumping it onto the floor.

“Got it.”

“Yeah. Get in.”

Chilton shook his head. “I’d just tip it. I’ll swim to shore.”

“Can you make it?”

Chilton shot him a very tired glare and pushed off the boat, swimming towards the dock. Will stared at the water-logged, dirt-covered tackle box, on its side on the floor of his boat, and then picked up the oars and started after him.

\---

It was warm, for early spring and for Virginia.

They sat on the grass by the dock, in a patch of sunlight. He hadn't swam far, but Chilton had forgotten how little exercise he had done lately and about his bad knee, and the swim had taken more out of him than he would like to admit. Will, thankfully, pretended not to notice, wordlessly handing him another bottle from the cooler.

Chilton hadn't thought to check until had drunk the whole thing (old habits), but he found himself unsurprised when he read the label; Bell’s Amber Ale *Vegan Friendly.

“Why did you do that?” Will asked. He had stretched out, lying on his back with his eyes closed, clearly with no thought to grass or dirt stains. Will wore Hannibal well, but he wore halcyon better. Chilton had the strange impulse to lie down next to him. Instead, he said;

“I had to. It’s the most expensive thing you own.”

“It was thirty dollars at Lowe’s.”

“Thirty-I thought it would be like, hundreds of dollars.”

“No. Why would I spend hundreds of dollars on a tackle box?”

"Because fishing is your whole thing. You know, you have your whole, your metaphors, and, and . . .”

Will had opened his eyes, and was staring at him blankly.

“ . . . and, just, never mind. Anyway, I saved you thirty dollars. Go Fredrick.”

Will laughed, and then stopped, abruptly. He stared at Chilton, with a strange expression on his face.

“What?”

“Your . . .” Will gestured to his face.

“My? _Oh_.” Chilton reached up and touched the place where the bandages had been. He felt wrinkled scarring and pulled his hand back quickly. He was suddenly self-conscious.

“How bad is it?” Will studied him, and Chilton, against his urges, held his gaze.

“It’s fine,” Will said, finally.

“You’re lying. It’s terrible, isn’t it?"

“It’s fine. Definitely there, but . . . fine.” He turned to watch the water. “Smart of you to stay inside all this time. Avoided an awkward tan.”

Chilton thought about how some things happened suddenly, and other things took time. They had to incubate, in a cocoon or in a warm tree stump or maybe even in a secluded house out in Wolf Trap, Virginia, through the winter.

"You want lunch?" Will asked, suddenly. "I can go get some sandwich stuff. We can eat here, outside. Cannibal-free and vegan, obviously," he added.

Chilton smiled. Change, he thought, had been a long time coming.

“Sure. I’ll help.” Chilton stood up, holding out a hand for Will. “And change into something less-”

“Disgusting?” suggested Will, taking it.

“Soggy. I was going to say soggy, Will Graham. Really, after all I’ve been through for you today."

“My fishing trips rarely to never involve swimming. Hence, _the boat_.”

“Well, fishing with me does.”

“Clearly. I'll bring an inner tube, next time.”

And they walked up the hill together, under the trees and through patches of rich sunlight, homeward bound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's it. I figured out how I wanted it to end.
> 
> Honestly it took me so long to write this that the bit about incubating is as much meta as it is about life.
> 
> Thanks for putting up with my slow updates. I really do plan on keeping my once-every-other-monday schedule from this point on, and possibly make this into a larger series. Anyway, thanks again for reading!
> 
> >>>> decotex.tumblr.com


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